by J D Wade
That’s kind of a long shot now, though, isn’t it?
Overnight, I’d gone from a sure thing to a snowball rolling through Hell. All because of one question. Well, not just the question, but the way I had let the question to sneak up and sucker punch me. It had gotten past all of my media and debate training. And I hadn’t even seen it coming. That most certainly would make anyone question whether or not I could handle a job as important as the leader of the free world. Even though Marty Goldman was a five-foot-five asshole with fangs in a pantsuit, she was right in giving me a proper chewing out. Most presidential candidates wouldn’t allow their Campaign Manager to talk to them the way Marty spoke to me. Or maybe they would if that campaign manager was Marty. However, I knew that I needed her.
Marty’s experience and track record at winning elections for politicians stretched back thirty years. She’d started small on mayoral and city council campaigns. Then campaigns for governors, worked on Senate campaigns, congressional campaigns, even two presidential campaigns. She’d never been on the losing side. She didn’t falter when hit with hardball questions in interviews. Never was someone able to get under her skin and get her to flounder like I had when I’d been asked one single question.
I needed her.
Rising from the bed, I stood there and looked at the chyron as it scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Words like “liar” and “shady” jumped out at me as images of my face popped up here and there. Muted commentators flapped their lips, probably discussing whether or not I was done for, and if they should just stick a fork in me. Were they speculating on whether or not the nomination was securely in Governor Ledbetter’s pocket? My face scrunched up with anger as I thought of the greasy old bastard sitting in some hotel just like mine, a shitting-eating grin plastered on his liver-spotted face as he watched the news cycle. Surely, he was on the phone telling one reporter or another how I was nothing but a dirty politician who had finally been caught in a lie.
Oh, yes, yes. He’s seemed such a fine fellow for the first bit there, but I guess, like most of those rascals in Washington, he’s proved himself nothing more than someone who will lie, cheat, and steal to get whatever he wants. Is that the type of guy we want in the White House?
My hand found the button on the side of the T.V., and I turned it off. I couldn’t watch myself get screwed over on all of the news channels for a second longer. Instinctively, I turned to find my phone, wanting to reach out to Justine. Why had she talked to anyone, let alone a reporter? We had agreed that our marriage was going to be just between us. When we had it annulled, she promised me that she would keep everything to herself. I scratched her back, she was going to scratch mine. However, it seemed that she was using her claws for something else. Why would she do such a thing to me? We had been so important to each other once upon a time.
As soon as I found my phone, and I was looking down at the screen, thinking about pushing the buttons that would connect me to my ex-wife, I stopped myself. Marty had been very clear that I wasn’t to have contact with anyone for any reason. Even my ex-wife. Especially my ex-wife. Marty hadn’t said that specifically, but if I reached out to Justine, and Marty found out, and I used that excuse for why I did it, she’d kick my balls up into my throat. If I was lucky, that’s what she’d do. I wouldn’t put murder past my Campaign Manager. Marty was right. I needed to take a beat and let her figure out a battle plan for how we were going to attack this public relations disaster.
I tossed my phone back onto the bed and flopped down beside it. Outside, I could see light snow flurries and a cloudy gray sky. Spring was upon us, but word hadn’t reached Minneapolis—the city we had escaped to after the whole Des Moines Article disaster. I desperately wanted to be back home in Arkansas, where it would be at least a few degrees warmer, and the sun might actually be peeking out from behind the clouds, heralding a coming change in the seasons. Instead, I was stuck in Minneapolis, wondering if I hadn’t completely destroyed the last year of our work. If I failed to secure the nomination and failed to be elected president, it was unlikely I’d ever get another shot—especially with a scandal hanging over my head. Jefferson, Jackson, Harrison, and Nixon all managed to lose a race and win on a subsequent try. Still, four presidents out of over two-hundred-years of U.S. history was a great indicator that the odds would be stacked against me.
I had to secure the Democratic nomination.
I had to win against Trump.
Marty Goldman could talk to me any way she needed to if that meant I was going to be the forty-sixty President of The United States.
Jesus Christ. Why hadn’t I waited to run for president until after I found a guy to marry? Then I wouldn’t be facing every single problem alone.
Chapter 4
Timothy
I Want You
There was nothing else that could be done. After Cheri and I had lunch at our favorite deli—which I paid for to make up for my glum mood—she went one way, and I went the other. Having a traditional job meant that Cheri had to get back to her office. At the same time, I walked back to my apartment to stew in my own juices and try to figure out what my next move was for Tuniverse. Of course, most of the afternoon was spent sitting in different spots in my apartment, staring at nothing, mentally berating myself, and desperately trying to think of new ideas for my brand. A luxurious vacation most of my followers could never afford was out of the question. New reviews of clothing they could never afford was just as bad. Doing some stupid prank and recording a person’s humiliation had never been my bag. Nothing I could think of held any real merit.
Shallow, shallow, shallow.
That was my real brand. Being shallow and doing things that other people could only dream about since they didn’t have corporations willing to foot the bill. With so many followers and such significant influence, it would be nothing for me to pick up the phone or shoot off a direct email to an executive at some corporation asking if they wanted to partner. I’ll get a vacation, and you’ll get shots of your product or services on all of my social media. I’ll even talk about it in one of my videos. But I didn’t want to use my influence to tell my followers that environmentally harmful travel to some at-risk heritage site was a great idea. It wasn’t. I didn’t want to tell my followers that buying a five-hundred-dollar t-shirt was just what they needed to do. People have rent, mortgage, utilities, student loans. They don’t need a new t-shirt that costs more than most of those bills.
However, being a YouTuber and influencer meant that people expect exciting and fresh content. I couldn’t continue to sit in front of my camera and rant about how stupid my entire world was, then admonish my followers for liking it. That was rude, first of all. Secondly, after one more video like that—maybe I could get away with two—I’d start hemorrhaging followers and sponsors. Within a year, maybe two, I’d be looking for a traditional job.
Maybe Cheri’s office is hiring?
I shook my head clear of the defeatist thoughts
Immediately going from “my job is kind of pointless and narcissistic” to “let’s go back to the grind” was a little sloppy of me. Before I made any rash decisions, such as jumping back into the 9-to-5 drudgery of a corporate office, I needed to take a breath. Step back from Tuniverse, figure out what it was that was lacking, and fix it. Surely, as creative as I could be at times, there was something out there that would fit what I was looking for to be my next big thing.
Environmentally sustainable travel?
Activism while wearing fashion?
The coolest locally sourced foods with a twist?
Fair-trade foods that no one knows about?
I could be trendy and responsible, and still be an influencer. Right? All I had to do was figure out what exciting and fresh thing I wanted to make part of my brand. Once I managed to figure that out, all I had to do was figure out how to make it exciting. Use my humor, creativity—maybe a few glasses of wine—and introduce it to my followers. A smile formed on my face as I headed to
my closet for my suitcase. Shove a week’s worth of clothes into the bag, hop on my laptop and find a cool spot, then let the search begin.
Talk to people.
That’s what I’ll do.
Force myself to be social with locals.
All of the locals.
Find out what’s hot and exciting where they’re from.
What’s going on there that’s not going on anywhere else?
How can people come experience it in a responsible and sustainable way?
My suitcase was almost too full for an extra pair of shoes and my toiletries by the time my brain was set on my decision. Brain and heart finally working together, propelling me towards setting my new plan into action. I stuffed my feet into a pair of knock-around Sanuks before grabbing my phone off of my bedside table to stuff it into my pocket. Wallet, keys, all the essentials were stuffed in pockets or shoved into my bag. Then my sunglasses were slipped onto the top of my head—just in case—and I grabbed a light jacket. You never know what you might encounter when you go on an adventure, right? With a grin and a new determination to see something through, I extended the handle of my suitcase and headed toward the door, pulling my bag behind me.
As I passed the sofa, my gut suddenly felt like molten lead, as though actual lava had been swallowed and sank into the pit of my stomach. It was both paralyzing and nerve-inducing. I let go of my suitcase, allowing it to stand upright in the middle of the living room floor as I slumped down into the sofa. I hadn’t even looked up ideas on my laptop. Where was I going? The airport? Just buy a random ticket and fly out? That was kind of a dangerous and jackass thing to do. Besides, who would feed Larry while I was gone? No one knew what I was going to do.
I don’t even know what I’m doing!
I glanced at Larry in his bowl by the door.
Blub-blub.
Larry knew what was up.
“Yeah.” I sighed as I ran my fingers through my hair. “You’re right. This is dumb, Larry. Asshole of the Year. Right here, man.”
Blub-blub.
Fuckin’ fish has your number, man.
Larry began to take another lap around his bowl, now that he had told me off, and I felt my body slowly sinking backward, as though the couch and my desperation were working together to immobilize me. The light coming through the window was turning a bit orange, letting me know that the evening hours were approaching. Soon, it would be night, the city would be lit up, and I’d be sitting in the dark like an idiot as my sassy fish swam around his bowl and cursed at my stupidity. With a sigh, I moved the toe of my left shoe to the heel of my right shoe, intending to kick them both off. It was getting too late. Maybe—I mean, if I still felt the same way after a good night’s rest—I’d get on my laptop in the morning and figure out where I was going.
Just as the toe of my shoe connected with the heel of the other, a knock roused me from my internal thoughts about what a loser I was. Groaning as I rose, pushing my heel firmly back into my left shoe, I pulled myself off of the couch. Larry had stopped moving in his bowl, and it seemed as though he was looking at the door through the glass of his bowl. That was a ridiculous thought, as fish aren’t quite intelligent enough to understand knocking at a door. Nevertheless, Larry’s little sparkling gold and orange body was pointed at the door. His mouth was wide, and little bubbles were trickling from the corner of his mouth as I approached the door, my eyes on his bowl.
“You’re a nosy bastard.” I chuckled.
Blub-blub.
He’s sassy as hell today.
I let the door swing wide without even looking through the peephole since a serial killer would have been a welcome sight. Instead of a murderer, I was met with a woman in a pantsuit and a dour expression who I had never met before. However, she looked eerily familiar, though that might have been her tailored pantsuit and hair that was coiffed in a way that let a stiff breeze knew not to waste its time. People in suits of any variety, and with certain hairstyles, just scream—“official.” I’d probably seen her on T.V. or in some internet meme. Maybe she was a reporter. That thought made my gut sink lower.
I thought all of the reporters finally gave up on getting a quote from me?
“Timothy Long?”
“Oh, great.” I sighed and leaned into the doorjamb, one hand still on the door. “Are you here to misquote me on some trashy internet site, or am I under arrest?”
“Pardon?” She frowned.
“You don’t look like a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“I’m not.”
“Great. Are you arresting me?”
“Did you commit a crime?”
“Thinking about it.”
“I’m not with the police.”
“Well,” I started to swing the door shut, “I’m not interested in talking to a reporter.”
“I’m not a reporter.” She put her hand out impatiently to stop the door.
“Are you looking for Mr. Bopisto?” I frowned at the aggressive placement of her hand against my door. “He stopped selling edibles months ago.”
“What?”
“Huh?” I was confused.
“Mr. Long,” She sighed, “if that’s who you are, I’m not a reporter, a religious fanatic, a police officer, and I don’t care about who’s baking pot into brownies.”
“Bundt cakes. Miniature Bundt cakes.”
“What?”
“He sold pot-laced Bundt cakes,” I explained. “They were actually pretty good. You’d want to eat two or three just because they tasted so good, but you’d be on another planet if you did. I told him that if he made them a little less delicious that it might be good for business—and everyone’s mental state, but—”
“May I come in?” She cut me off.
I made a choking sound as I grinned.
“Sure, lady.” I threw my hands up in the air. “Hope you’re dangerous. I’ve had a fucking bad day. Weeks, really.”
Ignoring me, and obviously inept at detecting sarcasm, the woman entered, pushing the door wide with her palm, forcing me to snatch at the door to keep it from hitting the wall. My living room was getting dark—sundown had arrived. Frowning at the woman’s back as she strutted into my living room, I flipped the light switch by the door, my eyes darting over to Larry for a moment before I slowly began to slide the door shut.
Blub-blub.
Yeah. She’s probably going to murder me.
It’s been swell, Larry.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked cheerfully as I strolled into the center of the living room, rounding the woman to look at her. “Water, tea—a restraining order?”
“No, thanks.”
Expert at people skills, she was not.
“You’re Timothy Long,” She continued, nonplussed. “I assume so anyway.”
“I am. Are you sure you’re not a police officer? Or detective, I guess, since you’re dressed all business-like?”
“I’m not with the police, I’m—”
“Cool. I mean, Mr. Bopisto still sells the mini-Bundt cakes.” I nodded. “He’s just being a lot more discreet about it. The cops were showing up every other day, and this is a nice neighborhood, so he had to be a little more circumspect about what he’s doing. He’s got a real job. It’s just a side hustle. Most people need them nowadays. Rent’s astronomical.”
“Mr. Long.”
“Sorry.” I shrugged.
Apparently, this woman was not interested in hearing about the ways that Mr. Bopisto on the fifth floor made some extra scratch. Like everyone else in the building, he was paying several grand a month to live in what amounted to a large shoebox with a closet-sized bathroom. Having one job just didn’t cut it if a tenant wanted to also have a life that didn’t involve staring at their walls on the weekends. I’d offered to let him help me with Tuniverse, some assistant work, or whatever, but he preferred the Devil’s Lettuce. He didn’t enjoy people much, and pot doesn’t usually talk back. Unless it’s the really good stuff.
“Who are you?”
I asked the woman as she surveyed my apartment.
She slowly turned, taking in her surroundings, as though she were making her mind up about whether or not coming to my apartment had been a dangerous idea. Other than the pot dealer on the fifth floor, the building was safe. Actually, the pot dealer was probably the least dangerous person in the building. He was always too out of it to commit violence. She had nothing to worry about. Her facial expression made me wonder if she wasn’t concerned with taking home bed bugs or fleas, though. She didn’t look like someone who sat on strangers’ furniture often.
“Have you heard of Nathan Reed?” She asked as she finally turned to face me, her steely gaze meeting my blasé expression.
“Can you be more specific?” I asked. “That’s a pretty generic name.”
“The Nathan Reed?”
“Is he an actor?”
“Are you fucking with me?”
“Singer?”
“The Nathan Reed. The lawyer. Running for President of the United States?” She snapped.
This lady certainly was a charmer.
“Oh.” I nodded as I turned to saunter over to the tiny kitchen off of the living room. I needed a glass of water. “Yeah. Annulment-gate.”
“If you insist. Yes. That Nathan Reed.”
“Nope.” I turned to grin at her as I yanked my drinking glass off of the edge of the sink. “Never heard of him.”
She growled with frustration. I just chuckled and placed the glass under the tap and turned on the faucet. A second later, water sputtered from the filter and began filling the glass. The woman mumbled behind me as I let my glass fill, then twisted the knob to turn off the water. Once again, I entered the living room, glass of water in hand. Looking into her icy eyes, I lifted the glass and took a small sip of the filtered water.
“Obviously, you’ve heard of him.” I could tell she was controlling her temper. “You’re just giving me shit because you can.”
